Loss of Life
by TaffyKatt
Summary: Someone is dead. Someone very dear to us. He wasn't supposed to go, but he did, and now all he can do is watch us. some slash, not graphic.


**Loss of Life** Shadow

Disclaimer: South Park isn't owned by me, myself or I, neither are the characters.

One-shot. Kyle's view of everything after he's already dead. Like seeing things from the afterlife type thing…ish. MWAHA! KENNY ISN'T THE ONE WHO COMMITED SUICIDE!! Done now. Implied Kyle/Christophe, no action, 'cause Kyle's dead and Christophe's not a necrophiliac, necrophilia's sick… in a bad way. That's about it.

I hope this enough to satisfy you people, as the second chapter of _Kenny's Journal_ still has a ways to go before it's done. Sorry about that… Don't kill me!! -cringes-

I sat alone that night, when the darkness seeped through my window in thick strips of sadness, when no one was there to help me through my depression. I had no one to turn to then and still no one to turn to now. I had just looked to the pain for comfort. I just went to far that night. The darkness had been extremely demanding that night and its wants had exceeded my offerings. My mind tried to stop myself, but my need for the feeling of pain was too great by this point in time.

What does one do in my position? Does one go and do what they feel is right for them, abandoning all those who need them? Or does one stick it out through your friends depression, pretending to have none yourself? Is it natural to do this constantly, worrying never for yourself, but always for the fellow human man? Does one continue to not take care of themselves, considering themselves unworthy and forgotten, and keeping themselves as their last priority? How does one survive this harsh lifestyle? How does one handle the pressure? How do I continue from day to day, forgetting no one but myself? Why do I do this? Why did I let myself continue on that way, with no one to comfort me, only trying to comfort everyone else? Even when I try to satisfy others', they never seem to be satisfied with the work that I do for them. Why not? It seems no one appreciated me when I needed it on that dark night. It seems that no one was there to save me when I needed it. How did I let myself do all the work I did? How did I let myself get to the point where I was the one cutting himself? Why didn't I go to someone? Stan or Kenny would have listened… why didn't I go to either of them? It was because I didn't want to be a burden to the world. I needed to be a burden though; else I wouldn't be here right now, floating above my body, staring at the people who went to my funeral. Everyone dressed in black and crying. Some are so sad that they are beyond tears. They have cried so much that they no longer have tears within their bodies to cry with. That would be Stan.

I guess now that I'm here I see how much people did love me. I mean, though Cartman didn't even come to my funeral, he was mourning at home. Mourning for me! They're reading my eulogy now. Actually, Stan's reading it. He looks at the paper and not at the people in the crowd. He blames himself for not noticing the slits or the collection of drugs slowly growing within my medicine cabinet. I can read it on his face. He keeps thinking that if had known things might have been different. He says that I was such a great friend, always there when you needed me; that I was only sixteen when I had died. There is no mention of anyone there to comfort me.

Kenny stands up first when Stan finishes reading my eulogy, but he is the last at my casket. He looks at my body, blaming himself also, for not being the one to comfort me. He's got a single white rose in his hand, one of the many symbols to a safe passage to the other realm. He sets it gently in between my hands and somehow, after all the crying he's already done, he cries more. He sheds more tears and begins to lose his balance at my casket. I want to rush to his side and help him up, but I can't. I'm too busy being dead. The Mole, who lived through all of his incidents, rushes to Kenny's side, helping him back to his seat.

Christophe also came to my funeral. He was balling even more than my two best friends were put together. He cursed god for taking me and not asking him. He calls god a bitch again and more cursing ensues in his thick French accent. He wishes that we could have had more time to do the things we had planned to do together. He is angry and depressed at the same time. His wild brown hair is everywhere, but mostly in his eyes, hiding them from the view of the people who might notice the tears of the former war veteran.

I really look at my body for the first time in my death, and I see that they've made me look handsome by covering my slashed arms. They tried to make me look as though I were asleep, but I look dead. My body is pale as the moon itself and my lips are no longer flushed with color. I look away from myself, ashamed. I had let my habit get the better of me; I had let myself get to a point where the cutting wasn't enough. I had gotten to a point where each step closer to death gave me a thrill and each new way to cause myself pain was a whole new sort of ecstasy. The knife was just one way. There had been another types of pain; the over-the-counter drugs. Every weekend when my parents weren't around or even weekdays I'd make myself pass out. There had been many others as well, but this was where it had started and ended as well. I was just doing my usual dose of pills, just enough to make me pass out, but I suppose I had let a few extras slip into my mouth, just enough of them to kill me.

All of the school is here, at my funeral, everyone who cared to come at least. There are a few I don't know by name, only by face, but they each look saddened for me. I am filled with a single desire to continue on living in that body of mine; the one that is within the casket below me. My soul no longer feels normal human emotions, but extreme ones. Everything is intensified when you are dead. As I watch the people who mattered to me grieve for me in ways that I wish they didn't have to. I sit above them and extreme anger at myself and my god ensues.

They are beginning to lower my body now. They've closed the wooden casket and have begun using the crane to lower me into a grave. A priest-like figure is reading the scripture as they all do so formally at funerals and as my body was lowered ever so slowly, Kenny breaks done again and Christophe can no longer hold back as well as he had been earlier. Stan is immobile as a stone, but you can see the tears rolling down his cheeks as though it were in slow motion. My mother is wailing in my father's arms and Stan dusts the first bout of dirt on top of my coffin. They begin burying my coffin and soon the maple wood is no longer visible to the human eye.

We move away from the graveyard and I see so many of my friends and family at the reception. Some of those who are there aren't really my friends, just pretending to be for the free food. They're whispering about how they can't believe that I committed suicide the way I had. Stan, Kenny, and Mole are glaring at the people like that for me, because my glares would not be visible to most eyes. My mother is still wailing and my father is still trying to comfort her. He doesn't cry when anyone can see him, but at night when my mother is asleep. Then he cries quietly to himself, making sure as to not wake my mother. He needs to be strong for mother and all of the rest who cry for me.

None of my friends go to school for the next few days, each respecting me in his own way; Christophe by mourning a lover, Kenny by living on in my honor, not dying in one of his many gruesome ways for my sake, and Stan by keeping himself in control and keeping memories of his best friend alive in various ways. Cartman didn't go to school either, whether he admits it or not, he misses our daily quarrels and fights.

I had to go and take the pills that night. I had to go and take my life. Now I look back and realize I had a good life: a good love, good friends, and good family. The pressure and depression had gotten to me. I had just given up hope the first time I picked up my mothers sharpest kitchen knife.

I recall everything as I look at my grave. It would be my seventeenth birthday today, but I am now dead. I watch my true friends and family come one by one to leave a gift or pay respects to the dead… or more specifically, me. Christophe left some little velvet box. It would have had a ring in it, except he keeps that at home to remind him of me. Not that he'd ask me to marry him or anything, but he hasn't let himself date anyone else since my death that was just short of a year ago. Kenny, being too poor to buy anything for anyone, even himself, just stopped by and prayed for a bit, hoping that maybe my roaming spirit would hear him, which it did. Stan came to my grave with candles and lit them ceremoniously. Seventeen candles in all, one for each year that I would have lived if I had I stayed alive.

It's now close to midnight and no one else will come this night to say things to me. I look at my marble stone and wish that of all the horrible choices I made, could have changed that one. I looked at the hand-carved stone that my parents paid so heavily to have made for me, their only son by birth. It reads: Our beloved Kyle Broflovski, 16, a loving brother, son, friend and love. May he rest in peace.

_I don't think I'll ever be able to rest in peace…_

Review. If you review enough, maybe I'll do some sorta thing that leads up to this, or something to go along with it. Aw, just review and tell me if it was good or not, then I'll be ultra-happy… and possibly give out stuff… I like critics too, I always need advice here and there.


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